


Lividity

by thedevilchicken



Series: Fishing for Trout [1]
Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Feelings Realization, Getting Together, M/M, Rough Sex, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: McCullum has visited Pembroke twice a week for the past year. Two weeks ago, he stopped; Jonathan knows precisely why, but that doesn't make his absence more palatable.
Relationships: Geoffrey McCullum/Jonathan Reid
Series: Fishing for Trout [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713781
Comments: 6
Kudos: 123
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside), When Death Loves Flamingos





	Lividity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Masu_Trout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/gifts).



"You could have killed them," McCullum says, and Jonathan recognises the truth of that if not the reason why he's stating it. 

"Yes," he says, with a second's sidewards glance before he continues with his work. He's come to understand over the weeks and months that have passed since their first acquaintance that McCullum's visits don't usually require his full attention, or rather they both prefer to maintain the illusion that Jonathan is half distracted and not, in fact, paying extremely close attention. He thinks perhaps it soothes McCullum's moral dilemma that he can think of him as a doctor and not only a leech, as if one can't be both. For himself, it's mostly to pretend McCullum is a colleague or a peer and not the head of a shadowy league whose general aim is to kill him and everyone like him. In that way, they've both been able to convince themselves that this repeated proximity is tenable. Tonight, however, it is not.

McCullum visits Pembroke at least twice a week. Jonathan assumes it started as a warning, _we know where you live_ , and his initial visits were rather brief and utterly arbitrary of timing, which seemed to bear out that hypothesis. Then visits slowly lengthened. Frequency increased, even if predictability of time or day did not. They sit and they talk and they do anything but look at one another and politely pretend that Jonathan can't smell blood on him each time he's injured, or blood on him each time he's killed. And the fact is, McCullum has only ever asked his help as a doctor, not an Ekon - he's borrowed bandages and medicine and passed him samples for analysis and though Jonathan reminds him every time that he has a day job, even if it's not performed during daylight hours, he can't pretend he doesn't find the time to do those things for him despite that. 

McCullum visits Pembroke twice a week, or at least that's become his usual practice. This past fortnight, though, he's not been there at all, not until tonight - no pacing the room while they discuss restocking Nurse Crane's clinic where the Priwen get their oft-required first aid, no fiddling with his crossbow with its bolt mercifully pointed anywhere but Jonathan's back, no lounging on Jonathan's dreadful hospital bed eating corned beef sandwiches from the hospital canteen because the staff are sweet on him - something about his roguish smile and the Irish accent. Jonathan overheard them one night, talking in the gardens by the morgue where they liked to smoke. He'd had to admit, as he'd walked by on his way back into the wings that housed their living patients rather than the dead ones, he'd never given much thought to McCullum's smile, or to his accent; he'd met so many men from so many different places in the war, after all, and he wasn't sure he'd ever seen McCullum smile. 

It hadn't been his intention at the time to give it much more thought than that, to tell the truth. He'd expected to move on with his night, return to his late evening rounds and then write up notes in his office, but what he did in his office was sit at his desk, his pen poised in his hand above the paper, and think about Geoffrey McCullum. He supposed he'd known, at least on an intellectual level, that McCullum was a relatively handsome man; he had a striking face and clear eyes, an impressive physique under his moderately shabby clothes, and an air of confidence that Jonathan thought then, as he thinks now, had either come with age or with experience...or else the rather grim belief he wouldn't quite live long enough to achieve much more of either that he didn't have already, not in his profession. He expressed himself well, if a little bluntly sometimes, but Jonathan had always valued honesty. And he was sharp. Tactically, he was sharp, and in his wits he was sharp, and in the sting of his forthright tongue he was sharp. They traded barbs on a twice-weekly basis while pretending to half ignore each other, and Jonathan realised at that moment that he'd long since ceased to dread McCullum's arrival. He enjoyed the challenge. He enjoyed the company. Perhaps they didn't discuss what he was, but at the very least he didn't have to act as if he didn't know what he knew. 

He enjoyed the company. He enjoyed _his_ company, more specifically. And when McCullum let himself in later that night, when he sat on the cupboard by the sink and started servicing his pistol using a pile of good new gauze, Jonathan glanced at him every now and then. With his coat off and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his poorly pomaded hair starting to fall out of place, Jonathan understood what he'd overheard outside - not only was Geoffrey McCullum an attractive man when speaking just in generalities, but he was also attractive _to him_.

It wasn't an unpleasant revelation, as it happened. He certainly had no intention of acting on it - _Romeo and Juliet_ might have worked for Shakespeare but he didn't see that particular tale translating well from star-crossed teens to a vampire and a vampire hunter. And frankly, that assumed his interest in McCullum was more than purely physical. He assumed it wasn't, but as a man of science he knows better than to assume. So, he put that assumption to the test. 

The next time McCullum arrived, Jonathan told him, "Good, you're just in time," pointed him to his lab coat and had him help prepare a set of slides. He honestly couldn't say even now whether McCullum did as he was told more from surprise or intrigue or just some desire to keep busy, but the fact remained that he _did_ do as he was told - they worked together for more than an hour, McCullum wearing Jonathan's white coat and Jonathan in an apron, with McCullum asking rather sensible questions about the work between their usual low-level insults. Then Edie from the canteen brought up a plate of sandwiches and told him, "Ooh, Mr. McCullum, I almost didn't recognise you!" McCullum smiled and thanked her, and modelled Jonathan's coat for her with a plate of ham sandwiches balanced on one hand like an exceedingly odd kind of waiter. 

"So, you do smile," Jonathan said, once Edie had said a quick good night and retreated from the door, and McCullum shrugged at him in response. Then he sat down on the corner of Jonathan's desk, on top of a number of sheets of exceedingly dull paperwork that Jonathan really couldn't muster the enthusiasm to care about him potentially ruining. He met Jonathan's bloodshot Ekon eyes just for a second, over the first of his ham sandwiches. Perhaps they never spoke about Jonathan's condition, and perhaps McCullum treated him essentially as human, but then again in all those months he'd never offered him a sandwich, not even as a joke. Either he was very attached to sliced bread, or what Jonathan was never slipped from the forefront of his mind even for a second.

"I smile when there's something to smile about," McCullum said, then he turned his attention back to the brown bread in his hands. And when he departed, not long after, Jonathan was left with the knowledge that not only would at least one member of the Guard of Priwen have made a competent scientist with a little training, but he'd have liked to have found a way to put a smile on that particular guard's face. The issue was, apparently, that he ranked somewhere below leftover ham on the scale of what McCullum enjoyed enough to smile about. 

Jonathan found himself wondering about McCullum's likes and dislikes, which was in itself a worrying prospect. He knew how he took his tea, of course, and his preferences in weaponry, and the fact he preferred wine to beer or spirits, which was a shame because at least a couple of Priwen brewed their own ale back at their headquarters. McCullum brought a bottle of it in one night, to drink with his canteen-issue sandwiches, and ended up spitting it down the sink; Jonathan offered him some wine instead, and McCullum accepted without asking where it had appeared from - he'd had Avery pick it out from the bottles left at home, as it happened, since there was no one there anymore who liked to drink it regularly. Then he watched him drink, out of the corner of his eye, swigging wine from a glass that was more lab equipment than tableware. He saw him smile and glanced away before McCullum could catch him smiling, too. It seemed like a small victory in the scheme of things, but a victory nonetheless. 

So there it was, he thought, when McCullum finally left for the night. He liked the man. Perhaps he couldn't call it helpful, or appropriate, but he also couldn't call it entirely unwelcome; it made him feel just a touch more human, knowing he still had that kind of warmth in him. And besides which, McCullum never had to know about it - they could play this little game for quite some time to come. Or that was what he thought, at least. 

Usually, McCullum visits at least twice a week. Two weeks ago, that stopped, and Jonathan understands precisely why. 

After the Disaster incident, the two of them had rarely met outside Pembroke. They'd glimpsed each other across streets on occasion, while each was doing his very separate and very different rounds, Jonathan attempting to assist the denizens of the poorer boroughs medically while McCullum tried to keep them safe from monsters just like him. Priwen had stood down their Great Hunt, and McCullum had evidently issued some kind of order that Jonathan Reid in particular was not to be touched, but his nerves still jangled just a little when he saw the Guard of Priwen. He still remembered the burns, and the light of the cross, though they'd always healed quite quickly afterwards.

Two weeks ago, Jonathan was leaving his office just as McCullum arrived. They stood awkwardly in the empty street outside, in the vague light of the streetlamps, and when Jonathan said, "I'm sorry, I was just leaving...but feel free to let yourself in," McCullum looked up at the office door and shrugged. 

"Going home?" he asked, instead of starting his climb.

"Yes," Jonathan replied. He looked up at the sky and turned his palms up as if checking for rain that he absolutely didn't find. "It's a surprisingly pleasant walk at this time of night."

McCullum glanced at him, just a brief flick of his gaze, then turned away. "I'll walk with you," he said, and Jonathan found he was surprised by that but again, not unpleasantly so. 

They set off and they walked together at a relatively brisk pace, McCullum blowing on his hands every now and then and his breath clouding the air in a way that Jonathan's conspicuously didn't; he made an effort to dress appropriately for the weather, but it mattered very little when its discernible effect on his temperature was less than on a reptile, which he suspected McCullum would find strangely fitting. And they talked a little as they went, about Jonathan's attempts to analyse the various properties of Ekon blood as distinct from human and about McCullum's rather hapless new Priwen recruits, until the already quiet late-night streets turned ominously quieter. Three Ekons and a Vulkod appeared from the nightly fog ahead, past the bridge. McCullum clenched his jaw and readied his crossbow. Jonathan wished he could have believed that the little band didn't mean them harm, but he frankly did not believe that for a second. 

The newcomers attacked. The Vulkod presented the most immediate threat and so Jonathan took care of him, swiftly if not neatly, trusting McCullum to fend for himself in the meantime; the Vulkod was cocky enough to let him get close, apparently confident of his superior strength, then Jonathan tore out his throat with his teeth and let his body drop. When he turned, McCullum had killed one Ekon and knocked a second to the ground where he knelt, stunned, but the third had him. The third was holding him by the throat from behind and had her teeth by his neck where Jonathan could see the blood pumping underneath the skin. The second Ekon rose up from his knees. McCullum gave Jonathan a look that said he'd rather die than turn, but he'd still much rather live than die. And Jonathan couldn't pretend his clothes weren't soaked through with Vulkod blood, that it wasn't on his teeth and in his beard and _everywhere_. The light was relatively low, but McCullum surely couldn't help but see. 

His own surprisingly lively Ekon heart hammered in his chest, and he weighed his options quickly before acting. There were less costly options, he supposed - perhaps he could have reached both of the Ekons in turn before one or the other could avenge their fallen comrade, and a physical attack would have been so much less taxing for him. But he knew there was a chance - a very real and immediate chance - that such an attack would end in him witnessing McCullum's death. Attempts to stun them first and then finish them off could have a similar effect, and overwhelming force with a broad focus would have undoubtedly swept McCullum from the world along with his attackers, even if it would have left Jonathan safe. That did not sit well with him at all, he found, and so he risked something else instead. Something that it sickened him to do, given just how far from human it would make him feel as a result, assuming he survived it. 

When he moved, it was to call to every scrap of blood within those two attacking Ekons. He didn't doubt he was stronger than they were - he'd found his own powers surpassed those of every other vampire that he'd met, though that didn't make what he did to them _easy_. They were old and powerful and he would have preferred them to be a great deal less so, but wishing didn't help and he knew, once he'd begun, that he was committed - he had to see it through and kill them or else it would likely mean his own death instead. So, he called to their blood and he seized it in their veins, made it thick and stiff as concrete, and he felt his own blood begin to burn with the energy required of him in order to maintain his attack's precisely-targeted, McCullum-free focus. When he finally released that hold, he split their blood so rapidly that they began to haemorrhage from every orifice while dropping to the ground. They expired there, rather quickly, and Jonathan slumped shoulder-first against a nearby wall. He'd bet his own strength against theirs collectively, and apparently won.

McCullum looked at him. Jonathan was so weak that he could barely stand, let alone apply his Ekon sight, but he didn't need to see McCullum's blood to know his pulse was fast and his breath came quickly. McCullum frowned at him, at the blood that was still all over him, at the weakened way he stood. Jonathan could perhaps have taken the three Ekons at once, he thought, but three plus the Vulkod would have been the end of him. For a moment, it seemed that McCullum understood that. And for a moment, it seemed McCullum might help him. He came closer, and Jonathan had not the first idea what the look on his face might mean, except McCullum cupped Jonathan's bloody face in both his hands and with a sharp jolt in his chest, Jonathan almost believed that he might press his mouth to his. He was close enough that it would not have taken much and Jonathan wanted it. More than McCullum's blood, he wanted his mouth, and his body, and the bed in the house where he'd grown up where they could strip off each other's bloodsoaked clothes. But the idea was ridiculous and McCullum seemed to agree with that assessment; he frowned, and he turned, and he walked away from him. Frankly, given what he'd just seen him do, and the little pseudo-human charade they'd maintained for months up to that point, Jonathan couldn't blame him. 

He made his way home alone when he could summon up the strength to move, before sunrise but only just before. He didn't particularly expect he'd see McCullum again, and all that he could tell himself was he preferred McCullum live but hate him for the thing he was than die pretending he was something else. 

McCullum didn't visit again that week. He didn't visit last week, either. And Jonathan's next visitor wasn't Priwen at all; he was the precise opposite kind of human. 

One week ago today, one week ago _tonight_ , Lord Redgrave of the Ascalon Club sent him a message. That message was in the form of Geoffrey McCullum's crossbow, which arrived in the hands of one of the Club's rather substantially more human associates - that associate wore puncture wounds at both sides of his neck like he might wear medals at his chest and Jonathan found that even in the midst of goring concern, he could still feel disgust. The man they'd sent had no hint of Ekon mesmerism to him, only the clear desire to join their ranks himself. Jonathan couldn't help but suspect he'd be disappointed.

"Lord Redgrave says you're invited to a party," the man said. "You're late, though. Your friend's already there."

With the smug expression on the man's face, Jonathan felt very much like he could have torn out his throat just like the Vulkod's and felt very little remorse for it. Of course, he knew he didn't have to do that - sooner or later, someone at the Ascalon Club would. What he did instead was knock him out and take away McCullum's crossbow, which he had no intention of permitting him to keep. Once he'd tucked it away where it wouldn't be found, he left the hospital mid-shift, without a word - he knew where he was going, and he deposited the unconscious messenger on the nearest park bench along the way. 

When he reached the club, their Vulkod doorman let him in with a sneer on his face and told him, "Upstairs." So he went upstairs, looking ahead to find a party of ten Ekons waiting, and McCullum bound to a chair in their midst. He was still struggling, which was at least a moderately positive sign, and Jonathan wondered, as he went, if perhaps he might have found another way aside from knocking at the door and walking in. If he'd just taken a little more time to think, he might have performed a more effective rescue. Of course, he knew there would be guards, and lookouts, and indeed they were present when he looked for them. But, however he might have entered, he understood that he was walking straight into a trap. He accepted that, however uneasy it made him. 

"Dr. Reid," Lord Redgrave said, as Jonathan entered. "So glad you could join us. I wasn't sure you had received our invitation." 

Jonathan glanced at McCullum. He'd been stripped to the waist and struck across the face, more than once from the look of his bleeding lip and slightly swollen eye, and the smell of his blood had to be at least as intoxicating to the other Ekons in the room as it was to Jonathan. McCullum looked back at him, pulling against the restraints at his wrists and making his arms flex tightly. It was an extremely inappropriate time for Jonathan to take note of his physique, but evidently that didn't stop him. 

"You're a fucking idiot, Reid," McCullum said, then he spat a mouthful of blood onto the rug. "It's a trap." 

"Of course it is," Jonathan replied. He licked his teeth, his tongue tracing the unnatural points of his incisors, then he turned away. "Lord Redgrave. How can I help the Ascalon Club this evening?"

Lord Redgrave smiled. And soon it became apparent that they had no grand desire to kill him, or indeed to kill McCullum; all they desired was petty revenge and Jonathan believed, from all he'd come to know of them over the past several months, both personally and from others, that they were telling the truth. If the two of them cooperated, the Club's honour would be satisfied and there would be no need for them to employ violence. Of course, what they wanted, or what Lord Redgrave wanted at the very least, was their complete humiliation. He had a very specific plan for how that would be achieved. Jonathan hated that it didn't sound like the worst of all possible options, at least not to him. 

McCullum looked horrified as Jonathan undressed. He did so quietly, and calmly, with no fuss or threats or even any words at all. He turned his back to him, which made the prospect easier - he could pretend he had submitted himself for a medical examination and not some twisted kind of public penance. As he did so, he asked himself what he could do to prevent this; the answer was precious little, if he didn't wish to catch McCullum in the crossfire. He could be precise, as he had done previously, and take three or maybe four, or he could, potentially, obliterate them all. Compliance it was, then. He might not have liked the idea, not exactly, but he found he could stomach it in order for them both to exit the building with all but their prides unscathed, which was why when his skin was bare he went down on his knees on the rather nice Persian rug. 

He heard McCullum's bonds being loosened, then the sound of a fist as it connected with what was more than likely a jaw, and then the resulting scuffle as they subdued him again. 

"You don't seriously expect me to take it up the arse from a leech?" McCullum said, then they flung him to the ground behind Jonathan's back. He glanced over his shoulder, darkly, as he squeezed his own thighs to help maintain his composure. He didn't feel composed.

"No, they don't," he told him. "To put it in your terms: they expect me to take it up the arse from a human." He sighed, and he turned away again, then he clenched his jaw and went down onto his hands and knees. "Just get on with it, Geoffrey. The sooner you do it, the sooner we can leave, and you can get on with plotting your revenge instead of being eaten by a nest of vampires." 

There are a number of issues inherent to making a man perform sexually. Jonathan knows this, from a medical standpoint and also from the point of view that various elixirs and aphrodisiacs would not be quite as common or prolific if dysfunction in that area were not also commonplace. But when McCullum moved close, and he spread Jonathan's arse wide with both his hands, when he rested his member against his exposed hole, he was already hard. There was no dysfunction there. He felt his own cock start to stiffen in response. 

"We don't have all night, Mr. McCullum," Lord Redgrave said, and then wandered away to take a seat. 

McCullum sighed, quite a lot like he'd have rather taken his chances fighting ten Ekons singlehanded than have sex for their entertainment, but nonetheless he did get on with it. He rubbed the rim of Jonathan's hole with one thumb as he did what sounded a lot like stroking himself roughly, and then he pressed the moist tip of his cock against him. Jonathan took a breath. He shifted his knees a fraction wider on the rug, though the way that motion exposed him made his chest feel tight. He could barely recall the last time he'd been in receipt of this particular act but he had been, more than once, and he knew what to expect. He knew what to anticipate, and that anticipation flooded him. 

McCullum pushed into him. It was a tight fit with only a little saliva and McCullum's pre-ejaculate to ease the way, but Jonathan didn't mind that; he stayed still and he let McCullum enter him, slowly, with his hands gripping at his hips. It was a tight fit, and McCullum's breath was loud, and Jonathan's heart thumped so strongly in his chest that he could have almost believed he was still human, not an Ekon, and therefore the very thing McCullum despised most in the world. Of course, if he'd been human, chances were the two of them never would have met, not unless Jonathan had returned to his family home from the war to find the city overrun by Skals and maybe, just maybe, been saved from a marauding pack of them by a vampire hunter.

He could almost see it, as he closed his eyes and felt McCullum's hands shift to his waist, as he pushed in as far as he could get and paused there, ridiculously hot inside him. He could almost see himself as he'd been before all this, as healthy a colour to his skin as a man can hope to have on his return from war, clear eyes, and how utterly ill-equipped he would have been to fight off even the most lethargic of Skals. He could recall his own surprise upon first encountering one, and could imagine the rush of finding himself saved by a handsome and thoroughly competent stranger. He could see himself saying thank you, saying _won't you come in? My house is just there_ , saying _at least wash the blood off_ , saying _are you injured? I'm a doctor_. Inside, McCullum would take off his coat and his jacket and shirt and he'd let the human doctor clean and dress his wounds, just as the vampire could but was not permitted to. 

He'd let the human Jonathan Reid touch his skin with warm hands. He'd look him in the eye and there'd be nothing to hide and when he kissed him, McCullum would smile at him and say, "Are you meant to do that, Dr. Reid?" When he'd kissed him again, he'd tell him, "I'm _a_ doctor, Mr. McCullum, not _your_ doctor." He'd never been to bed with a patient but for the fantasy's sake, he'd make an exception. 

Still, the fact remained: Jonathan Reid was a vampire. A vampire on his hands and knees on the floor of the Ascalon Club with a vampire hunter's cock pushed up inside him, hot like a brand in contrast to the chill of his own body. A vampire atoning for what he'd done in the case of Aloysius Dawson, whose wealth and power had been shunted away from the Club into the community. Jonathan felt no particular remorse for that, but he did for McCullum's sake; he suspected his involvement in Lord Redgrave's plan was entirely due to the time the two of them had spent together, not his role in Priwen. There were probably rules about that kind of thing, and Jonathan simply hadn't maintained his Ascalon affiliation long enough to find them out. They seemed like that sort of establishment.

McCullum moved. His rough hands gripped a fraction harder at Jonathan's waist and he rocked his hips forward and shifted inside him. Jonathan hadn't seriously contemplated sex with anyone since his rather jarring change of nature, but he couldn't say it was different, precisely - the difference was he supposed he wasn't meant to enjoy it, and was moderately certain that the man currently fucking him was doing so from a sense of sensible self-preservation rather than desire. Of course, that didn't change the fact that when McCullum rolled his hips and shifted in him, marginally, he felt a spark of pleasure running through him. It didn't change the fact that his own cock ached with that movement, and he wanted more, but there wasn't enough lubrication between them for anything other than the smallest movement. Jonathan's hands clawed at the rug, his nails digging into the pile, and he knew if he applied just a little of his Ekon force, and his Ekon claws, he could have punched a set of holes straight through it. And McCullum moved again, and kept going this time, slow thrusts of his hips that made Jonathan's pulse quicken almost as much as McCullum's barely stifled groan did. He supposed it was something to know his body enjoyed it, if not his spirit. 

McCullum kept going and Jonathan braced himself, and he felt everything inside him start to tighten. McCullum's cock pushed past his prostate with each thrust of his hips and made Jonathan feel tense and weak and breathless. Perhaps that was a difference, he supposed; in human life, he'd never been able to bear being touched there, but as an Ekon, he felt the pleasure of it radiating through him until he could almost have believed that they both wanted it. 

It was all over relatively quickly, looking back. He supposes the friction of him around McCullum's cock was very nearly maddening and he couldn't say he blamed him when he felt his hands grip tighter still and his hips buck in tight against his arse. McCullum came inside him with a startled, bitten-off moan as if his orgasm had taken him off guard, then he stumbled back quite quickly. After a moment, Jonathan pushed himself back up onto his knees. 

He turned his head toward Lord Redgrave, even if he didn't turn the rest of him. "So, is your honour satisfied?" he said.

Lord Redgrave smiled what might have been pleasantly had it been anyone else but him. "Perfectly, Dr. Reid," he replied. "You and your friend are free to leave."

So, they dressed. Jonathan acted just as if his cock weren't very near painfully hard and he pulled on trousers, shirt, waistcoat, while McCullum cursed under his breath and dressed in a hurry. Then, they were escorted out together. After McCullum's climax, the rest seemed oddly anticlimactic.

On the footpath outside, by the gate, in the dark, they stood together briefly. Jonathan could still smell McCullum's blood, perhaps because the thin trickle from his split lip had started to flow again, stealing over the stubble at his chin and down his neck to the collar of his shirt. 

"That's going to stain," Jonathan said, and for a second McCullum looked confused before he swiped a hand across his mouth and neck and smeared the blood against his skin. 

"We know how to get blood out, Reid," McCullum said, then he looked at him, hard, frowning, before he stepped in close and leaned up high and rubbed his bloody mouth against Jonathan's. It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't _not_ a kiss. And when McCullum turned and walked away, Jonathan could taste him on his lips. It lingered for hours, past when he got home, past when he knelt at the side of his bed, pushed down his trousers and stroked himself to the thought of him. It lingered for the rest of the night. 

"You could have killed them," McCullum says now. 

"Yes," he replies, simply, and he returns to preparing his slides. "But it would have also killed you."

"Maybe I'd have rather died."

Jonathan knows that usually they maintain the pretence that they don't represent two very different factions within the world they both inhabit. They pretend that they're allies rather than natural enemies, and they keep that up by acting as if McCullum doesn't know exactly what Jonathan is, or at least by ignoring the fact of it. But he turns around. McCullum knows what it means that the whites of his eyes aren't really white at all but vivid, bloody red. And he's the one who brought it up - neither of them believes a West End doctor could kill an Ekon, unless he's one himself. 

"Would you have rather died?" he asks. "Please bear in mind that if you say _yes_ , I won't believe you."

"Are you calling me a liar, Reid?"

"In this case, yes, I am."

"What if I called you a leech?"

Jonathan smiles wanly. "I've been called worse," he says. "I've been called worse by you, in point of fact."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Being called a leech?"

"What they made us do. Why aren't you mad? Why aren't you fucking livid?"

Jonathan sighs. He leans back against his workbench and he crosses his arms over his chest. Their relationship is dead, such as it was, like a corpse in Pembroke's morgue showing signs of lividity, but he's not livid himself. Disappointed, yes, but anger seems like overkill.

"Am I happy about it?" he replies. "No. I usually prefer a bed for that kind of thing, and significantly less of an audience. Was I planning on beating my breast and crying _woe is me_? No. What possible use could that be?" 

McCullum frowns at him. "That kind of thing?" he asks.

"Sex, Geoffrey. I thought the reference was clear."

"With men?"

"Yes, from time to time."

McCullum turns away. He runs his fingers into his hair and pulls at it and when Jonathan looks, when he really _looks_ , his heart is racing in his chest. Suddenly, the pieces of a puzzle he hadn't realised existed start slipping into place. Suddenly, a great many things make a great deal more sense. 

"Geoffrey," he says, and McCullum's shoulders seem to tighten, so he steps forward, obvious about it so that he has a chance to move, and sets his hands down at either side of his neck. McCullum tenses further, then takes a slow breath in. He forces himself to relax. 

"Do you want me to kill them?" Jonathan asks. 

"What, Redgrave and his bloodsucking cronies?"

"Yes."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

" _Why_?"

"You seem to be a lot more distressed by this than I am. You'll forgive me for thinking killing them might be on your mind."

"I'm not _distressed_."

"You haven't called me a leech in almost a year. Why do it tonight?"

"Well, you are one." 

"And I was last month, and I was when we met, and I was two weeks ago." He runs his hands down McCullum's back. He rests them at his waist. "Why now?"

When McCullum turns, when McCullum looks at him, his expression says it all: _why now_ is _because it turns him on_ , because he's seen what he can do and it excites him. He's seen what Jonathan is willing to do if pushed, and that excites him, too. He hates that it does, but that doesn't keep him from dragging Jonathan down into a kiss. It doesn't keep him from taking two fistfuls of the front of Jonathan's shirt and hauling him in close. They both know Jonathan doesn't have to let him do that if it's not what he wants, too.

Jonathan understands. For so long, they've painted a thin layer of not entirely plausible deniability over McCullum's understanding of what Jonathan is, but that deniability was torn to shreds irrevocably the night he saved McCullum's life. They'd been pretending Jonathan was human, as much for his own sake as for McCullum's, so that they could both feel marginally more at ease with the situation - McCullum wasn't forced to confront the fact his ally and possibly even friend was the most powerful Ekon in the city, and likewise, Jonathan didn't have to face that fact. But Jonathan doesn't always want that. It's one thing that he doesn't have to hide his familiarity with McCullum's chosen profession, but he doesn't want to have to hide what he is himself, not every night, not so fastidiously. He wants to talk about his powers and see what McCullum can tell him about them, from his observation of other Ekons that he's fought. He wants to go with him sometimes when he hunts and use what he has to help him. He wants to look him in the eye and know he understands his eyes are red because he drank the blood of a man they both agreed deserved to die. It's not his long hours. It's not the nights he works. It's because he's a vampire.

He's not human any longer, and he'd like there to be just one man in all the world he doesn't have to hide that from; it turns out Geoffrey McCullum might be that man after all, in spite of all their better judgement. So, per the scientific method, he decides to test it. 

When he seizes McCullum's upper arms and pushes him back against the nearest wall, he does so swiftly and with no possibility that he can escape it. When he holds him there by his shoulders and McCullum presses forward, as if testing Jonathan's strength, he holds firm. He shifts to hold him there with just one hand instead, his palm pressed flat over McCullum's sternum, and the test there is McCullum could likely slip out to the side if he wanted to instead of pushing against his hand, pressing his own hands to Jonathan's shoulders, putting all of his not inconsiderable force into it. Jonathan understands because McCullum doesn't actually seem concerned by what's happening; his pulse is strong and quick but it hasn't risen to the level of panic and he's not striking him, not clawing at him, kicking, shouting, not actually struggling at all. He's looking straight at him, meeting Jonathan's gaze levelly, albeit with a slight flush to his face. 

McCullum takes a breath. He bites his bottom lip. He rests his head back against the wall. He stretches out his throat and Jonathan can see the place he'd bit him, the one he's thought about but would never actually do, but McCullum seems to read his mind because he lifts his chin and turns his head a fraction and oh God, he's not hungry, he's really not, he's sniffed out more rats on hospital premises than the network of resident stray cats combined and he detests it but in the end, blood is blood. On the other hand, when he presses his mouth to McCullum's neck, the idea of his blood in his mouth is very nearly intoxicating. He grazes his skin with the points of his teeth and he feels McCullum shiver, but it's not with disgust. He slips one hand between McCullum's thighs and the fact that he's already hard seems to confirm that: he's not disgusted. Far from it. 

"Are you going to bite me, leech?" McCullum asks, and his voice sounds thick and strained and low in a way that Jonathan has never heard it before, and it's obvious McCullum isn't scared. He's just aroused. 

"Do you want me to?" Jonathan asks, maybe teasing him a little. His lips move against McCullum's skin and then he kisses him there, what would be hotly if he weren't so unnaturally fucking cold. 

He feels McCullum's hands tighten on his handfuls of shirt, pulling it taut as a drum over his back. He feels McCullum's cock stiffen harder underneath his palm. He feels like he might have just asked entirely the wrong question, or entirely the right one, when McCullum hits his head against the wall and presses against Jonathan's palm and one hand goes up to close on a fistful of hair. Jonathan lets him ease his head back by it and McCUllum's face is flushed, his pupils wide, when he says, "If you bite me, leech, I'll fucking kill you." But when he brings Jonathan's mouth back to his neck, he doesn't believe that at all. At this moment, he would let him do it, and the realisation of that fact makes Jonathan's cock strain against his trousers. He presses it up tight against McCullum's hip and they both groan at the feel of it. But he's not going to bite him. At the very least, not tonight. 

"What do you want me to do, Geoffrey?" he asks, though he's already unbuckling McCullum's belt. "Would you like me on my knees? Your pet Ekon?"

McCullum snorts. "I haven't even got a dog, never mind a vampire," he says, and when Jonathan pulls McCullum's trousers down over his hips, McCullum drags him down into another kiss. His newly exposed cock rubs against the fabric of Jonathan's trousers and he wraps one hand around him, tight but not too tight, just holding him there. 

"So, what do you want?" Jonathan asks again, as McCullum rocks his hips against his hand. 

"Fuck me," McCullum replies. Jonathan's eyebrows rise in surprise and McCullum's rise like a warning in response. "Don't make me say it again," he says, and Jonathan knows better than to do so. When he stands back, he goes far enough that McCullum could make a run for the door if he wished so, even if they both know Jonathan would catch him, but he doesn't. He watches Jonathan calmly, wrapping one hand around his cock to give the head a slow squeeze while Jonathan rummages through his equipment for something he can use as lubricant. And when Jonathan glances to the bed, McCullum just sheds his coat and turns to face the wall instead, leaning against it with his forearms. Jonathan supposes he can make that work. 

He slicks his fingers first, just the first two, then slides them both between McCullum's cheeks; he feels him tense as they find his hole, as they rub against his rim, then he takes a breath and shuffles his feet wider apart and Jonathan takes that as a positive. He presses with the tip of his forefinger and McCullum rests his forehead down against the wall. He presses it in and he feels him tense again, then slowly relax. 

"Stop being so fucking nice about it," McCullum says. "I'm not a pretty porcelain vase, Reid." And no, he's not a vase, he's not even a pistol, but he's flesh and blood and they both know that if he wanted to, Jonathan could tear him apart directly. What he does, however, is pull back and drop his trousers down just far enough to free his cock. He slicks himself thickly. Then he pushes his blunt tip to McCullum's hole. 

He pushes in. He slips on the first attempt and slides between McCullum's cheeks with a huff of muted amusement, but then he pushes in. He can't really see what he's doing - the angle's all wrong and his shirt keeps dropping down no matter how many times he tugs it out of the way, but he _feels_ it, how McCullum's hole eventually gives just enough to let him in and so he keeps going, keeps pushing, closes his eyes and grips McCullum's hips until his whole length is in him. Then he rests his forehead down against McCullum's shoulder, takes a breath, turns his head and mouths at the side of his neck. He brings one hand up to spread over his throat from behind him, and he settles the other at McCullum's abdomen, underneath the hem of his shirt. He feels wonderful, the heat of him, the way he reaches back with one hand to rake Jonathan's nape with his nails, the tightness of him around his cock. He'd like to tell him, but he's not a man of those kinds of words. Perhaps McCullum is, but they're currently both rather more mute than usual. 

He moves then. He shifts that hand from McCullum's throat to the wall for leverage in addition to his greater height and he moves, his other hand still flat at McCullum's bare abdomen to keep him there in place. He's tight around him but the lubricant does its job - the slickness of it makes movement easier, makes it possible for Jonathan to pull back right to the tip then push in deep again. He hasn't done this as an Ekon yet and honestly he hadn't seriously believed he'd want to, given how he feels about the changes in himself. But the fact of it is, as he has McCullum there against his office wall in long, deep thrusts, as he feels him wrap one hand around himself and stroke, he can see all the ways he wants this now. 

He could push him down over his desk, paperwork be damned. He could sit him on a chair and kneel between his thighs. They could walk back to Jonathan's home one night, like they'd tried to before, and he could invite McCullum in, sit him down, offer him a drink though he couldn't have one himself. Then, later, they'd argue on the way upstairs, just not loudly enough to wake anyone else, and bed really would be preferable to the Ascalon Club's floor. Or maybe McCullum would take him to Priwen, let him push him up against his bedroom door and let him kiss him until they were both much too hard to turn back. That could never happen, of course, but Jonathan finds it a rather compelling thought despite that. 

McCullum comes first, making a mess of Jonathan's office wall and clenching around the length of him inside him. Jonathan goes still through it, letting McCullum shove back hard against him, taking him deep as he gasps and tenses through his sudden orgasm. Jonathan almost expects him to push him away once he's done but he does no such thing; he leans forward just a little more, braces himself against his forearms and tells him, "If you're waiting for Christmas, Reid, it'll be a bloody long time."

So he fucks him, hard, making himself gasp, making McCullum gasp, making his hands slip on the rather aged paintwork but Jonathan still holds him in place. Then he comes, muffling a groan at the crook of McCullum's neck as he thrusts in deep just one final time. With the heady, overwhelming rush of it, he almost loses his footing completely - as it is, he stumbles back, pulling out of him entirely accidentally, and McCullum turns to steady him. He pulls him back in close. 

"Who knew leeches got so damn flustered," he says, and pats at Jonathan's cheek condescendingly. "Bed next time, then. So you won't stagger around like a drunk when we're done."

Jonathan raises his brows. "Next time?" he says. 

"You can call me old-fashioned but I don't like to fuck around," McCullum replies. He tucks Jonathan back into his trousers. He gives his crotch a not terribly gentle pat, then he steps away to retrieve his coat as he talks with his back turned. "If it's you then it's you, Reid. You understand?" he says.

He contemplates a sarcastic response. There's a few of them right on the tip of his tongue, _I didn't realise I'd betrothed myself to the head of the Guard of Priwen_ , but he just frowns at himself and says, "Yes, I understand." Because honestly, he doesn't see how that changes anything. McCullum's been here at least twice a week, every week, for a year. Jonathan hasn't taken a lover in that time. The only change might be what they do and say while he's there.

"Good," McCullum says, then he strides back in. He kisses him, hotly, hard, like all of this has somehow eased him through a realisation and brought him swiftly to the other side of it. Perhaps that's precisely what has happened. 

Jonathan frowns. "I'm still a leech, you know," he says, as McCullum pulls back. As he makes his way toward the door, he half-turns back toward him and McCullum's mouth twists in something almost but not quite a smile, so Jonathan thinks perhaps he's getting closer to the level of Pembroke canteen ham. 

"You're the exception that proves the rule, Reid," McCullum replies. "You have been for a while. I make a point not to lie to myself, so it's about time I admitted that." 

Then he leaves. The door bangs shut behind him, but Jonathan absolutely believes he'll be back. 

_Next time_ sounded a lot like a promise, Jonathan thinks, as he goes back to his microscope. _Next time_ sounds a lot like complications are ahead, as if they needed any more of those. 

He looks forward to it anyway.


End file.
